


Night On Earth, 2277.

by jumex_depeach



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 3
Genre: M/M, Slow Burn-ish
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-24
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2020-01-25 20:00:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18581566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jumex_depeach/pseuds/jumex_depeach
Summary: "Upon opening his eyes, Butch’s were staring back into his. Such a soft larimar blue ; his stomach lurched into a twisted knot again. He was so thankful, the caterwaul of the wind could cover up the sound of his heart thumping suddenly. Repressed deep inside him, since he was fourteen. Fourteen years old, and trying to avoid lingering stares on boys thighs during gym class in the atrium. Maybe there was a discomfort about it. Something cliché, that repulsed him from it ; made him bury it. Even when Butch asked to join him as he was exiled, he felt his palms get sweaty. But he made himself ignore it."this is not connected to any previous works I've posted. I just really like writing about my two favorite assholes.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written in over a year. I don't like using AO3.
> 
> Comments/Thoughts are appreciated ! I'm a big gay boy.

Andrés rubbed his hands together as a freezing wind dragged against their bodies and down desiccated, frozen hills. It was his first real “winter”, not like there was even a concept of seasons inside the vault ; beyond pre-war holidays designating the time of year they occurred. But outside in the arid Capital Wasteland, the climate dropped to body numbing temperatures ; especially as the sun would set. There was no snow, not that he really knew what it looked like, felt like. He’d seen pictures of it, in one of their worn out 200 year old school textbooks when he was a kid. The wasteland itself looked close enough almost, everything dead. Just with a lack of a white blanket.  
The dull glow of his pip-boy, said it was 4:23 pm, the sun would set by 5 probably. The overcast and dreary weather, made the landscape dimmer than usual. They’d have to stop soon. Find a decrepit building, or rock face to protect them from the frigid wind. 

He still wasn’t used to companionship, he’d been alone for so long it seemed. Though his sense of time became warped since leaving the vault, the first time.  
He still wasn’t sure why Butch asked to come with him, when leaving the second time. However he was okay with not knowing, or, he just didn’t want to deal with Butch’s attitude about the question. He never expected to be travelling with someone he’d had a tumultuous relationship with since childhood. Not that he ever expected to be where he was in life anyways. It was surprising to him that his brains weren’t splattered, saturated and staining a concrete floor in the middle of nowhere, yet.  
They didn’t talk much when travelling on foot. There was more silence between them, than words. He had talked to Dogmeat more than he’d ever talked to Butch.  
Sometimes it felt it hard to form words on his tongue, to speak. Even just to say which direction to head in. His mouth cottony and dry, yet too heavy to speak through. He tries to not show frustration about it. At most, a sigh and roll of his eyes as he gnaws at his bottom lip ; before being able to sputter words out, and repeat himself in a clearer manner immediately after. It’s embarrassing to him, he used to not flounder so terribly, beyond anxiety when giving presentations for class projects as a kid. It got worse when his dad passed away. Like his throat involuntarily closed off. He could hardly form full sentences when he saw Amata again. She was the only person he cried in front of since leaving.  
He felt tears welling up in the corners of his eyes, and he briskly blinked them away and cleared his throat. 

“Need to— _we_ need to find somewhere to stay. Already kinda dark, we shouldn’t be walking around blindly.” At least there was less fumbling that time.

Butch shoved his hands deeper into his coat pockets, still an odd sight to see him out of his trademark leather jacket. “I’d prefer a building than setting some shitty camp up out here.”

Andrés looked down at his pip-boy, “There’s not much preference, it’s more like—like we go with that we find first Butch.”

He heard Butch sigh and mutter something inaudible behind his back. He bit the tip of his tongue, to keep the anxious tension in his body under control. The brief taste of iron filled his mouth.  
Stopping against a small cliff, looking South. Wind drying out his eyes as another gust shook weak branches of dead trees. “There’s a campground.”

Butch stopped next to him, audibly sniffing as he kicked a few stray rocks over the cliff. “Yeah, some 200 year old sheets of metal buried in dirt are really fucking sturdy Santos.”

“Nothing else around. Already getting darker, we don’t have any other fuck—fucking choices. And I don’t want to make Dogmeat keep walking.”

“You care about that dog like it’s your fucking child.”

Andrés jumped down, whistling for Dogmeat to follow. “She. She’s my fucking child. Not— It. Manners, thank you.” 

He heard Butch mumble “whatever.” as he watched Dogmeat kick up dust landing on the ground. 

Of course he cared about Dogmeat, she was the only companionship he had for a while. It’s easy to get attached to things that keep you warm and safe. It’s like she was attuned to him in some ways, knowing when he needed her comfort, or something or other. It was nice to feel cared for, even if she was a dog. He wept into her fur, too many times to count. She was like a barking security blanket. He wouldn’t know what to do without her, he really wouldn’t. Which is a thought that scared him, everytime it crossed his mind.

 

* * *

The camper with the least amount of grime and rust was their choice, not that it was a significant difference, but avoiding tetanus seemed like a smart choice even in post apocalyptia. Although the windows were broken. Together, him and Butch broke some pieces off of a run-down picnic table to cover the windows with. His railway rifle came in handy, outside of spearing nails into pests or people. Which was nice to him. He used a tarp from his pack to cover the doorway.  
Home, for the night. But he didn’t like using that word, nothing has or will feel like home to him out here. He used to not be okay with that, though he’s grown to accept it recently. Amata made him. 

Him and Butch crouched in the camper as they arranged their sleeping mats and tattered blankets. Away from one another, opposite sides. Nothing but the wailing of the wind, and Dogmeat’s panting to fill the silence.  
An electric lantern centered between them, radiating out little heat. He laid on his side, Dogmeat curled against his stomach as he rested his cheek against her neck. The smell of dirt and stale blood stuck to her fur, filling his nostrils, while he flicked between the notes on his pip-boy. It was 5:14 now. He could hear Butch fidgeting, flicking his switchblade back and forth. 

“Do you wanna know something ?”

Andrés’ eyes fixated onto Butch from his pip-boy, “Not really.”

An irritated look is etched onto Butch’s face, the knit of his brow casting an overshadow on his eyes. Making him look almost menacing, almost. “You’re so fucking annoying.”  
He sighs before relaxing and glancing down to his knife ; his voice low yet earnest in some respect, “Just wanted be honest–and clear off any bad karma. I considered robbing you while you slept last night and dipping out.” His gaze goes back to Andrés momentarily. “But Dogmeat just started growling whenever I tried getting close to your shit.”

Andrés scratches Dogmeat behind an ear. “She’s a wise one.” To which she let out a gruff noise from her throat. 

Butch flicks his switchblade one last time. “And a bitch.”

“Scientifically speaking, yeah.” The wind had quieted down into a shallow hum. Andrés’ gaze remained on Butch, eyeing the loose hairs in front of his eyes. The pomade still giving them a sticky look even in the muted light. “I had no idea you believed in karma, or anything frankly.”

He received a shrug from Butch. “It’s not that deep.”

Andrés turns his head back to his pip-boy. “I mean, given how shitty you were from when we were kids till I left. I wouldn’t have expected cosmic energy and fate, to be something you gave a shit about.”

“Oh get off your fucking high horse jackass. You’ve always been such a pretentious pussy.” He rolls his eyes but they land back onto Andrés, searing, as if they could cauterize flesh ; and the spit of his tongue is vitriolic. “You’re always so fucking down on yourself, having a shitty pity party constantly. Thinking you’re the only one who fucking matters in the equation. Like, what did that fucking get you ? Left for fucking dead out here by your so-called best friend, and a forgotten orphan now. Daddy ain’t fucking here to fix your goddamn wounds no more. People change, maybe you should think about fucking doing it.”

“Fuck off.” Andrés raises a hand to cover his eyes, albeit he could still feel Butch’s eyes on him. “Do you ever fucking shut—”

“Not with limp-dicked fucks like you.”

Dogmeat raised her head in tow with the sudden jolt of Andrés sitting up. She was disinterested, but the unanticipated argument disturbed her rest. So she licked at a front paw while the two bickered.  
The wind picked up again, and rattled the camper gently. However it seemed to be rattled more from the inside out, than outside in.  
Her ear twitched forward to the reverberation of a fist hitting a wall of the camper.

Mumbled curse words in repetition permeated the air, alongside the howl of the wind. Andrés hadn’t felt this frustrated— _no, provoked,_ in months. There was a lack of pride, and more a feeling of shame about it. He could feel the shallow rise and fall of Butch’s ribcage as he shifted his legs. Andrés’ hands grabbed at the fabric of Butch’s coat, pulling him up briefly, before slamming him down harshly against the rigid floor of the camper. “You have no idea what I’ve fucking gone through and dealt with. You do not understand a fucking thing, you dense, arrogant cunt. Shut your fucking mouth before I sew it shut in your sleep.” 

“Get off me before I gore your fucking throat with my knife.”

Andrés says nothing. He looks into Butch’s faded blue eyes, at the delicate border of sable eyelashes. There’s something he’s drawn to inherently about them. Maybe the lack of interest in the dark, earthy tones of his own irises, has something to do with it. He’d never admit it. Sliding off of Butch, but not returning to his space. His thighs feel cold now.  
He can’t stop staring, while Butch refuses to look at him. Regret overflows in his chest, for being that borderline vicious. A venomous bleed that started back in August, and has seeped deeper into him. Tears swell to his waterline, yet he is too mortified by his own nature to stop them from dribbling down to his chin. So he just closes his eyes. 

A tepid sigh reaches his ears, and a foot gently kicks at his shin. Butch’s voice is oddly, sympathetically dulcet. “Stop crying.”  
The warm touch of a calloused thumb smears a tear against his cheek ; then it draws back. “Cry over something worthwhile.”

Now Andrés bites at his lip, spit moistening and filling the cracks in dried skin. Lungs stinging as he breathes in deeply. Tears slowing to a halt. Words are caught in his throat again. So he drags two fingers against his eyelids. A familiar weight rests atop his thigh, and he lowers a hand down, to run through her grimy fur. Stabs of anxiety steadily lessened, stomach knots unfurling. The tears had soaked into his skin, letting the light reflect a slight radiance off of him. A soft luster.  
Upon opening his eyes, Butch’s were staring back into his. Such a soft larimar blue ; his stomach lurched into a twisted knot again. He was so thankful, the caterwaul of the wind could cover up the sound of his heart thumping suddenly. Repressed deep inside him, since he was fourteen. Fourteen years old, and trying to avoid lingering stares on boys thighs during gym class in the atrium. Maybe there was a discomfort about it. Something cliché, that repulsed him from it ; made him bury it. Even when Butch asked to join him as he was exiled, he felt his palms get sweaty. But he made himself ignore it.  
Perchance, now that they’d left the vault ; being the only familiar things to one another in this uncanny world, he wouldn’t have to make himself ignore it anymore. In their time together, even if it was silent majority of the time. It would be hard to resist reaching for Butch’s hand to warm his. And during late nights, he’d almost wish he could feel Butch’s fist connect to his jaw again, like when he was 16.  
His father’s spirit surely had something to say about these thoughts, if he was watching over. Andrés will never know what his mother’s would think.

Andrés pressed his lips together. He thought of his father, rotted now surely. Buried in clumpy soil outside of Jefferson Memorial. His mother was dust. Possibly even the dust between his eyelashes. The end of his lips tugged into a frown. “Sorry for–”

Butch shook his head, followed by a honeyed chuckle. “Don’t. I’d prefer you didn’t.” He tugged at a zipper on his pack, retrieving cool bottles of beer. Ones they’d gotten from a scavenger near Fort Constantine the other day. Even showed them her homebuilt fermentation set. Though what she put in the brew, neither remembered. “Apologies mean jackshit out here from all I’ve seen. We didn’t kill each other at least.”

Their fingers grazed as the bottle was handed over into Andrés’ hand. He wasn’t sure if he agreed with the Butch’s sentiment.

Dryness on his tongue was quenched by the smoky malt, rich and slick down his parched throat. Still, his eyes focused onto Butch’s lips around the neck ring of the bottle. Which made his eyes go crossed for a moment, at thoughts that sprung to mind.  
He rubbed at the velvet of Dogmeat’s ear between two fingers, for comfort ; as they drank in silence. Strangely intimate. How quickly they could switch, between gnashing their fangs at one another like unruly wolves ; to lounging in a somewhat consoling truce over drinks. Did it say something about their character ? Or were they simply too tired to really carry on alone, and dealt with the company of each other ; because they realized separation wasn’t feasible, their dependence on one another, was turning into something deeper. Despite the lack of awareness about it.

Andrés rested the bottle against a knee ; as his free hand, kneaded small patterns into Dogmeat’s fur with his thumb. Eyes concentrated on the outline of shadows made by the lantern, specifically the silhouette of Butch’s left hand.

Butch tapped a fingernail against his bottle. “Do you think about Amata ?”

He nodded. “I do. Everyday, of every hour.” The wind harshly shook the tarp covering the door, making it dance erratically. “But I think of you even more.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The past couple months he would usually be in his head ; thoughts scrambled and divided in innumerable directions, wondering where to go next, reflecting on old memories, or beating himself up on decisions he’d made. Loneliness wasn’t great company, in some regards neither was Butch’s. Yet the presence was a pleasing thorn in his side, despite the bleed. Last night it had burrowed in so deep it could have punctured a lung. He wishes it did. "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> writing is hard, but rewarding i guess. taking my time with this, but also in the same turn trying to write every night which obviously isn't viable. so sorry for taking a while !

The sun bloomed through the fractures in clouds. Andrés bends down on a knee, to tighten the laces of his boot ; they’re scuffed, fabric torn and peeling from the toecap. A brisk breeze rolls over, drying and agitating his eyes. Blinking away the discomfort he glances at his pip-boy, reading 6:48 am, before turning back to Butch as he stands. 

Gawky silence between the two, not a purposeful stand-off, neither enjoyed talking in the morning. Sometimes it fared better to just throw a hand to a direction and get on with it. This time was slightly different though. Supplies needed restocking, but the places for the possibility of trading, in the even more desolate Northwestern part of the Capital Wasteland was lacking to say the least. Paradise Falls may have been a good bet, except he’d shredded shrapnel through everyone there two months earlier. It should have been labeled a “massacre”. It was, technically ; but it’s hard to garner sympathy, or even pity, for people who make a living off slave trade. Perhaps it was one of the wastelands many deserved massacres. There’s no guilt attached to that. None. 

“Think we should stay along the north side of the river. Probably make our way to Meresti Trainyard and head into the metro station attached, do some trading there. Know some people.”

Butch sucked his teeth in. “In a fucking subway station ? Those fuckers are always filled with ghouls or lurks, man no fucking way. We should just cross a dry part of the riverbed, and drop by Arefu.”

“They’re not gonna have shit there Butch. The fuck’s Evan King gonna have ? Junk and overpriced ammo ? The people I know, actually got shit. Don’t piss your pants about this, we’re not going to Arefu.” Andrés rubbed at the outer corner of an eyebrow, scowling wasn’t going to help.

“Well then we can just pass by, and head back to Megaton. It’d be nice to get some actual fucking rest. I’m just saying, _just_ saying.”

“And get shot at by some fucking spastic bloodthirsty raiders at Memorial Field ? Deal with other bullshit before we even get there ? Use your fucking head Butch, we don’t got much ammo for that shit. Already cleared out most of the mirelurks in the station anyway a while ago, but since you don’t fucking let me finish explaining myself–can we stop with the fucking tantrum, sweet Christ.” 

“Well I’m fuckin’ sorry I want to have some democratically made decisions here. It ain’t just you and your fucking mutt anymore.”

Already heading South along a trail to a cracked road, Andrés tips his head back, amusing disbelief printed in his face, “Can’t believe you used democratically correctly.” 

“Did some reading while I was still locked in, and you were out here pussyfooting.” Butch says, kicking up dirt, walking up to Andrés’ side. “I ain’t just a pretty face, Santos. Despite how much you treat me as one.”

“You ever hold your goddamn tongue.” 

Most they’d ever talked to each other in the month and a half they’d been stuck with each other. A disruption to the usual conversation of gravel against the soles of shoes, day in and day out. Almost plunging into a comfortable familiarity, if they could ever have one again after a permanent exile from the only life they’ve known thus far.  
The past couple months he would usually be in his head ; thoughts scrambled and divided in innumerable directions, wondering where to go next, reflecting on old memories, or beating himself up on decisions he’d made. Loneliness wasn’t great company, in some regards neither was Butch’s. Yet the presence was a pleasing thorn in his side, despite the bleed. Last night it had burrowed in so deep it could have punctured a lung. He wishes it did.  
Maybe it was just a sick sort of fantasy, feelings he didn’t know how to handle in any other way ; other than painful imagery, because it’s all he’d known for the last 5 months of the year. And held in for even longer. His sketchbook was filled with it, page after page. Intimate, personal pain drawn out in harsh lines, or by paint spread out in aggrieved tears.  
A scribbled self portrait each month, three year habit. Something to look back on, it’s own form of a memory. Though all his old sketchbooks were decaying in 101, or burned. He hopes Amata had saved them, _hopefully_. Now he is left with one he received on his nineteenth birthday, from Jonas funnily enough. Handmade, leatherbound from old, unused baseball gloves in storage. 

Each portrait from July till his most recent to November, shows the degrade into a haggard state which he could list off many negatives about. It should be the last thing to be anxious about, but he just sincerely wishes Butch doesn’t see it as clearly as he does.

Even with new bruises or scabbed over cuts, Butch was always pleasing to the eye.

For a while, Andrés was adrift in his own thoughts, permanent habit. Mornings were always untroubled. Wasteland critters still in nests or burrows ; early risers weren’t common outside of protected caravans or keen wanderers. Only the splitting and crackle sounds of deteriorated wood from the ruined houses of Faded Pomp Estates as breezes swept by.  
A dozing super mutant on watch, rested against a wall at the Roosevelt Academy. Fortunately their footsteps didn’t disturb it. Though he couldn’t help but think about that last bit of humanity it had in its desire to rest.  
Walking under the shade of a rusted train overpass, made them both shiver, the fleeting chill already setting into their bones. He looked to the Potomac River as they entered the sun’s gaze again, stagnant calm waters. A shade of hooker’s green ; though with more acidity of gamboge, than inky prussian blue. Embarrassing that he couldn’t help but analyze the terrain in front of him in hues of paint, evaluating color theory. Creature comfort perhaps.  
Recollection of his last painting, made his heart ache. Unfinished, it would stay that way. Had to leave before her birthday.  
If he had the time, maybe a free two weeks back in Megaton. He could paint Butch something for his twentieth birthday. Two decades was special. A little over a month until then, he could figure something out. End of the year was coming up quicker than he thought it would. In some ways he was thankful for it, though most of the time it caused severe, consuming anguish.

* * *

Sight of the fragmented overpass grew larger, crossing one of the still standing bridges from two centuries ago, as they trekked down into collapsed concrete and rubble. Trying to avoid the shadows of the buildings built around Northwest Seneca, and stay in the warmth of the sun.  
He thought about the West family. Curious if Ian still wrote to Lucy ; he was unsettled by the first letter she’d shown him after resolving the situation as best he could. A kid still, but the scene left of the West parents, made him hesitant to trust or even like the fifteen year old. Maybe he was being too harsh in his judgements ; if he met his fifteen year old self, he wouldn’t like him either, or maybe vice versa ?  
But he did only make Ian go back to Arefu for Lucy’s sake. She was too kind to be left alone. Lucy gave him a kiss on the cheek for helping her, though she made him bend down for it. It was embarrassingly delightful. Of course the first thing to make him flush scarlet in the wasteland, would be a woman a few years older giving him attention that was desperately craved. The most predictable thing to be expected from someone _like himself._

Sunlight blinded the both of them as they walked eastward towards the trainyard. A mild feeling of regret came up, knowing he had given Butch his sunglasses to help those sensitive blue eyes get used to the glaring sun. It was out of begrudging kindness, and most definitely not the desire to stop the complaining. He squinted over, and Butch gave him a cheeky smile and thumbs up ; eyes already shielded from the rising sun. The damp darkness of the metro couldn’t come soon enough. 

Glimpses of the derelict rails and metro cars made him walk quicker, much to Butch’s complaints to slow down.  
The cool shade gave some relief to his eyes, as he turned corner into one of the tunnels to hold open the door. But made quick action to stop Butch from walking in, as he whistled for Dogmeat.

_“Ladies first, Butch.”_

Butch scoffed at him.

Metro stations never had a pleasing odor ; collapsed rubble and trash with its collecting dust, the old presence of mirelurk corpses made it worse. A very sour scent, near vinegar but more salty akin to the sea, and rotting of course. Though by now it didn’t affect Andrés as much as it did Butch, who gagged before pulling up the collar of his shirt. He held back any teasing, and trudged down the subway.  
The thought crossed his mind of mentioning the “vampiric” tendencies of The Family to Butch, but it didn’t seem extremely crucial. All of them quite docile and friendly despite taking inspiration from a figure like Dracula, none vicious for warm blood straight from its source. Which was humorous, they seemed more bohemian than bloodthirsty in some ways. 

Andrés noticed Butch kept close as they entered the rail station ; so close, Butch accidentally stepped against the back of his boots and made him trip a few steps. The moment earned a sigh from his annoyance, and a mumbled, embarrassed apology from Butch.  
Sheepish looks from the both of them as members of The Family gawked at their disturbance, making Andrés awkwardly wave in greeting. Clumsiness seemed to be more of a common occurrence with the both of them near each other.  
The both of them mulled over inventory from the store and of their own as they traded. Caps rattling and clinking as they poured out of dedicated satchels. Butch, eventually ambling behind Andrés again, to let him handle counting. Much to the brunette’s displeasure.  
A tiresome wait, a boring one. Even if it was morning, the dingy ill-lit station casted a spell of drowsiness in Butch. 

It was unexpected, not a hard pressure, almost a familiar type of weight. Like with Dogmeat, almost. Resting between his shoulder blades. Andrés turned to look back over his shoulder, sight of Butch slightly slumped forward, forehead pushed against his back. But then he turned back to the counter, no reason to make a fuss. There was none.  
Made it harder to focus on the task at hand, but it was comforting. Despite the nervous sweat and thud of his heart that picked up, once he began to overthink possible implications. Yet he yearned for Butch’s arms to be wrapped around his stomach now, a more obvious intimate touch. To rest a hand upon Butch’s laced fingers ; subconsciously he pawed at his abdomen like it could be real. Which made him swallow his heart back down to his chest.  
When everything was settled, he breathed a sigh to repose himself, and moved a hand back to poke Butch in the side. Startled, Butch stepped back immediately. 

Saddling his pack back onto his shoulders, Andrés taunted lightly, “I know I’m a comfortable pillow, but we got places to be DeLoria.”

“A bit of a bony spine actually.” Butch yawned. 

“Well–” Andrés huffed, “I’m still taller than you.”

“Yeah, by a fucking inch.” Butch swung his pack onto a shoulder, lips pressed together tightly, as if he was trying to not say anything rude for once.

* * *

The sun had risen higher off the horizon now, letting a brighter wasteland greet them as they returned from enclosed murkiness. Crisp air temporarily stinging their lungs as they breathed in, it was welcome though, compared to the muggy suffocation of the metro.  
Andrés glimpsed at the time on his pip-boy, they could make it to The Citadel in a couple of hours ; be there by early afternoon, maybe he’d have time to catch up with Sarah if she wasn’t out with The Pride.  
It felt rude to think that she reminded him of Amata in some ways ; the strong sense of justice, and a profound loyalty to their respective fathers. But Sarah was more fierce, and bold given her sentinel role. Raised to be resilient and valiant. Where Sarah held more assertion in personality, Amata’s was tenderhearted and compassionate ; despite the restriction her father, and her status as the overseer’s daughter had given her. There was significant strength to each of them that was more admirable, than words he could ever form for either. Although he held love more for Amata, and respect towards Sarah.

Metro cars creaked against the subtle shake of the wind, as Andrés kept to his thoughts. Examining the map on his pip-boy, for the least taxing hike down.

“Are you okay with keeping to the eastern side of the river, till we cross the bridge by the grocery mart, and head down to The Citadel ?”

Butch motioned his head crooked, “why we need to go see those tin cans ?” Voice still sanded with lethargy. 

“I figure I’ve spent enough time putting off what I need to do for my dad.” His voice was small, dry. The guilt was slowly eating away at him as weeks had gone by, while the depression flooded his lungs. All while knowing his father’s corpse was six feet under, face caved in from decay with this passage of time. Smelling of damp soil and silt under the rot.

There was no response from Butch. So they simply continued on, no more shared words between them as they traveled off.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The luck of being able to catch Butch asleep, to study his confrère closely, was maybe the only good thing to happen between the two of them this week. With each smooth drag of the pencil, and a flick of his wrist with each minute detail he observed on Butch’s face or wrinkle of his jacket ; the thought of domestic intimacy crawled its way into his head, settling in, like a repulsive radroach birthing its young."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> woah, sorry for being gone for two months. depressive episodes hit fucking hard bud !! they're still hitting to this day... apologies that this is a very quaint chapter that focuses on Andrés. But he's also the main character, so it's supposed to be like that ? But I still feel like I should apologize.

Civility was hard to come by even outside of raiders and super mutants. It was one of the first things he noticed when he entered The Citadel for the first time. Still looking for his dad then. He was much different at the time, fear and depression still running through his veins ; but determination and a strong conviction, that it would turn out okay, maybe. He was wrong, of course. The expectancy that everything would turn out fine, and him and his father could try and live the best they could ; possibly help the wasteland, was the most extravagant pipedream he had since he was a child.  
He tried to not think about it much, or else he’d be pulling at the roots of his hair in a panic attack, curled in on himself, day in and day out.  
Among these megalithic walls, he was caught in a paralyzing despondency the moment he ran from the Jefferson Memorial. The adrenaline of protecting scientists and civilians unmitigated for violence kept him momentarily stable, till he arrived to the sympathy and apologies of Elder Lyons. An immediate collapse of will, both physically and spiritually. He was alone now, an orphan. His bestowed moniker, “The Lone Wanderer” was his only identity now, the only thing to hold a definite truth till his eventual death. 

Tight lipped smiles and subtle nods of acknowledgement greeted the motley crew, of the two young men and the scrappy dog following in tow. Andrés noticed the tension in Butch’s shoulders, arms crossed and closing off any vulnerability, as they walked through the courtyard. He could recall doing the same when he first arrived, scouring for answers and leads. Closed off to intimidating unfamiliarity. He felt so small, even standing at six feet.  
Gunshots interspersed between shouts of command and lecture on form, as the radio echoed its regular jaunty tunes of pre-war into the air. It always spiked a line of anxiety up his spine, harsh and loud tones never comforting to the ear. Even if they always ended up focused on him.

“They gave me my own temporary room before I left. I assume you’re gonna wanna stay there, as I go wandering around for things.”

Butch dipped his head in agreement, “No offense to your friends or whatever, I’d rather just smoke by my lonesome a while. Take a nap maybe.”

“Don’t have many friends here trust me.” Andrés said. “Just talking, work I guess. Family business.”

“Yeah yeah, trust me I don’t care honestly. Just do what you need to.” 

Andrés pursed his lips, and hummed in accordance. The drop of his heart dragged into his feet, he shouldn’t feel this hurt over the most insignificant conversation, the most insignificant reply. Maybe the sensitivity over his father, was still as raw as the day he left a month back. Dragging the nail of his thumb against his bottom eyelid to discreetly push away any tears that were building up, he opened the door for Butch and Dogmeat with his free hand.  
Ushering Butch through the hallways maze of wires and boxes, while knights headed out or paladins headed in, wasn’t as easy as dancing cumbia. Butch’s rhythm was lacking.

The space was humble, 8 x 10. It was a supply closet previously, but cleared out for a sympathetic hospitality after his father’s untimely death.  
Brief time he’d spent in it, he isolated himself into a catatonic state of severe sorrow. Only one time where he allowed himself to be seen by another person was with Miss Li. Even then he didn’t face her, he lay in bed looking towards the wall. He didn’t view a mother in her, nor did she see herself as one ; though it was the most he had been comforted since The Enclave took Jefferson Memorial. 

“Christ you didn’t say it was the size of a fucking box, Santos.”

A heavy sigh seethed from Andrés’ chest. “Go sleep outside then.”

There was a mutual annoyance garnered towards one another, as Andrés felt Butch side-eye him. But Butch kept quiet, and threw his pack dejectedly onto the ground of the cozy room. Boorishly slamming the door closed on Andrés’ face.

Left to his own devices now. They’d been stuck to each other’s tails for the past couple weeks, it was relieving to just not worry about Butch. There were more important issues at hand, than his childhood bully aggravating him in an obnoxious way that made sweat collect at the small of his back. Instead there was that dreadful weight in his chest, knowing what was foreordained for him like some sick joke. Not that he was exactly a religious person ; nor his father aside from when his mother was the topic of conversation. At most they’d say grace at the dinner table ; though even that lessened as he got older.  
Andrés just didn’t know what else to blame it on. Blaming his father seemed premature and of ungrateful, bad taste. The idea of God, was the perfect scapegoat for his inability to cope with his father’s death, and his fault for not being able to save the only family he had. A punishment dealt to him for, anything really. A list of all things imperfect about him and his actions catalogued in his mind. Standing in the hall, as the heavy steps of paladins and knights in power armor were felt, and caused pieces of the wall to crumble away bit by bit ; his breathing shuddered, but his eyes stayed dry. 

There was the hope in being able to see Sarah possibly, although outright looking for her made him feel like a reprobate. Aside from the general embarrassment of asking paladins that had much more important things to do than help some “trashy wastelander”, as Sarah once called him affectionately. A compliment received the way a mangy mutt gets a pat on the head. She told him that she saw the baby fat that still clung to his face, even at nineteen. That naivete sign of youth. It made him oddly warm. His mind turned circles as he gawked at the halls ; if they ended up in each other’s peripheral while he was here, then they could talk. If not, then so it goes.  
Strolling down to the archives felt more lonesome than it ever had before. The clear act of ignoring his presence felt more palpable, as he meekly said “excuse me” each time he passed someone.

 

* * *

His last endeavor in using a terminal for research was most likely a class project, some menial essay or other. The tacky clack of the keys reminded him of a memory with Amata, where they both got in trouble for playing with his father’s clinic terminal as if it were a piano. He smiled to himself at the thought, as his eyes traced through the lines of information displayed on the hazy green screen. A color that always seemed to agitate his eyes.  
The titled letters of VAULT-TEC felt mocking as he clicked through each folder. Scrolling through each document more slowly than regular, to take up time, make him feel like he was putting actual effort in. Instead of just skimming till he found a promising lead. Maybe to make it feel like he actually cared about the history of things. Or just because he didn’t want to go back so quickly to Butch. Whatever he would decide for the best excuse to soothe his insecurities, wouldn’t last long enough anyway ; a polite scribe would startle him from his thoughts, and politely ask if he could excuse himself out of the archives, for an impromptu meeting. Just like every other time, when more important issues at hand were happening around him, he’d simply nod and remember he was truly alone in his shitty plight. 

Turning the doorknob made his heart thrash in his ribcage, anxious it was too loud and somehow it’d be noticed. However when he peered into the murk of the room, Butch was fast asleep on the bed. Which was relieving. Andrés studied the curled figure for a moment. Hair loose from the pomade, strands unconfined and poking in every direction. Looked like a pre-war bird he saw in a book once. Though it also looked like Butch didn’t have the decency to take off his boots before laying down, or maybe the familiarity of sleeping outside had made it an unfortunate habit. The latter seemed more depressing.  
Making a brash decision to fumble around in his pack for his sketchbook, Andrés sat on the edge of the bed. The sink of the mattress made his stomach coil in nervousness, fear of waking up Butch to an awkward predicament. Well, for him at least. But there was nothing more than a mere murmur from his resting companion.  
The calm of being able to focus on life drawing was reinvigorating creatively, outside of landscapes. Using live subjects was always a bit embarrassing, especially if people noticed, asking was even more embarrassing. So they’d be scribbled out sporadically in his sketchbook. Unrefined and chaotic. The luck of being able to catch Butch asleep, to study his confrère closely, was maybe the only good thing to happen between the two of them this week. With each smooth drag of the pencil, and a flick of his wrist with each minute detail he observed on Butch’s face or wrinkle of his jacket ; the thought of domestic intimacy crawled its way into his head, settling in, like a repulsive radroach birthing its young. Andrés gritted his teeth, and continued to loosely shade in Butch’s quintissential leather jacket. Eventually dog-earing the page, when it felt like a legitimate drawing and not a fuss of unreadable lines ; before putting the sketchbook to the side. Perhaps one day he’d show Butch, and ask for an opinion.

The time on his pip-boy only read 8:47 PM, an abnormally early night for the both of them. A clicking slide of Dogmeat’s claws could be heard underneath the bed. If he could join her under there, he would. The size of this twin bed, couldn’t support two late stage teenagers on the brink of young adulthood comfortably. Still, it would have to work one way or another. Andrés carefully maneuvered his way up against the wall. Apprehensively turned to it, stiff as a table knife. It wasn’t the first time they’d laid next to each other. But it felt different. Sharing a bed was different, than sleeping bags with a few inches between them. There was a subtle dip and rise of Butch’s breathing he could notice. A delicate radiation of warmth even with their backs facing one another. There was no praying for sleep to come faster, just a wish for pair of hands to choke him into ignorance so he wouldn’t have to lay here any longer. That would be more comforting than anything in the world right now.  
A tear slid down from the corner of his eye, and blotched itself onto the mattress. Fingernails digging into his shoulders as he hugged himself for comfort. As more tears fell, a trembling pull at the corner of his lips couldn’t be forced straight anymore. Jowls twitching his mouth into a frown. Keeping his breath shallow so he wouldn’t be found out by the snot dribbling down onto his top lip. 

Andrés didn’t want to feel alone, he wanted to stop feeling alone. All he could ever do now is want, yet he never follows through beyond it. Only does as he’s told, like a puppet. Not that he even knows who pulls his strings anymore. He is asked of something, and he delivers. What is he ? An errand boy too afraid to confront what lays ahead of him ? Knowing there is only a garden of maggots waiting for him, the way it was for his father ? Gravestones, pale and washed with dustings of dirt that look like rows of hungry teeth that want to eat him up ; to tear at his flesh and leave him six feet under till he reeks of carrion.  
Almost letting a hiccup from his throat loose, rolling his face into the mattress. A shaking release of held in breath, as his shoulders tremble enough to slightly rock the mattress. Legs twisting around one another for a comfort of some sort. One he can’t create on his own. He wished for a hand to gently caress his hair, fingers running through brunette locks till they encountered a tangle. Something his father used to do, when he was being finicky as a child. But nothing would come of this wish ; his eyes would open to the blue-dark of the room as he turned over onto his back gingerly. 

It was a fantasy. Long winded and on repeat in his mind, when there was nothing else to ponder or stress about. Adapting to each change of scenery when they would rest from travelling. It started relatively early. Just the idea of their fingertips brushing. Over the following weeks, it’d grown into more complex situations, with limitless possibilities. The start was so simple and benignly childish. Like when he was nervous to place his hands on Amata’s hips during a slow dance at prom. Now what had come to occupy his thoughts, would usually end in wondering how Butch’s breath hitched from a jerk on his–well, it grew even more painfully embarrassing for him when he remembered they were mere inches apart. So Andrés tried to quiet those thoughts as best he could, and throw himself into a fitful sleep. Ignoring every thought that carved itself into the wrinkles of his grey matter.  
He pressed his thumbs into his eyes, till the pressure built under his eyelids and created blotches and patterns of an indescribable color for once, against licorice black.


End file.
